


ministop my heart

by bimrambles



Series: percussion boys [4]
Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Drabble, M/M, percussion boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 03:00:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11705424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bimrambles/pseuds/bimrambles
Summary: when will we ministop fucking meeting





	ministop my heart

**Author's Note:**

> hhhhhhhhfcuk  
> i'll write a full fic when i have enough of these boys thanks 4 being patient

jeremy enters the convenience store, failing to meet relief as what he expected to be a cool, air-conditioned joint turns out to be filled to the brim with striking red dress and blue uniforms alike; the atmosphere was lively and also quite insufferably humid. he squeezes through the multitudes of sweaty, post-game interschool students to reach the counter for a gulp— “ _wait, no, this isn’t a 7-eleven”_ — a  _drink_ , but was stopped partway by a jerk of his arm. he turns to meet christine trying to get his attention, wide-eyed and wordlessly waggling her eyebrows.

and she just... she just waggles her eyebrows.

“what?” jeremy says so monotone and flatly, though wildly confused at the gesture.

she flits her eyebrows again, tilting her head to the side. is she pointing? pointing in the general direction of— jeremy squints, spotting someone in the midst of the... oh.

 _you need to get out of here_   _asap_ , his brain helpfully supplies to him. he doesn’t need this right now. he came here to get a drink and leave. but, jeremy, impulsive as he is, decides to walk up to the bedan boy, crossing his arms as he watches the other suddenly stop halfway into biting his kariman at the sight of the marian.

“well, look who we have here.” jeremy turns up his nose and looks at him under his lashes, looking like the smuggest, most conceited fucker michael’s ever seen.

michael bites into his bread. “what, you happy to see me?” he says, contemptuous and mouth still filled with food. jeremy wouldn’t have minded, but he grimaces at the sight of this boy in particular seeming to have a lack of table manners. hey, it wasn’t a very promising etiquette to snottily greet who is now your fabled enemy (who, too, is just there to enjoy his food) either, but jeremy pushes that thought to the back of this head and pulls out something as  _foreign_  as he is, something he’s so unaccustomed to, something  _untried_.

“you wish.” jeremy spits out before walking away, nimble feet shuffling hastily waltzing across the off-white tiles, to avoid causing a scene, pep boys in earshot suddenly growing interested in the heated conversation taking place in a painfully cramped ministop.

 _tanga. ang tanga tanga mo, tangina ka._  michael wipes his mouth with his sleeve, blood boiling with scorn.

disdain.

maybe he does.

 


End file.
